There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(57)

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea why he does anything he does.”

“I thought you might . . . it was the same day he hung your painting on his wall.”

Now I do understand, though I try to keep my jaw from falling open so Sonia doesn’t see it.

Fucking hell . . . he smashed his favorite glasswork because of me?

My skin goes clammy wondering what he would have done with that golf club if I were standing in the room with him instead . . .all of a sudden I feel like I got off light with a non-consensual tattoo.

Sonia’s eyes narrow as comprehension sweeps over my face.

“Spill it,” she says.

I’m saved from further interrogation by Cole reappearing with a hard cider in each hand.

“What about me?” Sonia complains.

“You’re drunk enough already.”

I gulp my cider, wanting to calm the uncomfortable pounding of my heart.

“Take it easy,” Cole says.

Whenever he barks an order at me, it makes me want to do the exact opposite. I wasn’t going to take another gulp, but now that he said that, I take three more in quick succession.

Is it because I want to see that stiffening of his face? The way his pupils expand and his jaw flexes, creating a beautiful tension on the bow of his lip . . .

He grips my arm with iron-hard fingers.

“Don’t fucking test me,” he hisses.

Why do I like that?

Why is warmth flushing all the way down my legs?

Jesus, I’m so fucked up.

The alcohol is providing me with newfound bravery. And newfound honesty with myself.

I want Cole. I want him like money, like success, like achievement. I want him much more than I want other supposed necessities: safety, for instance. Or sanity.

“Dance with me,” I say, pulling him out in the press of people.

Sinner — DEZI Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple





I’m curious to see Cole dance. While I have no doubt his taste in music is as refined as the rest of him, that’s not the same thing as having rhythm.

The question evaporates from my mind the instant his hands make contact with my skin.

Cole’s touch is electric. For all his coldness of manner, his actual body burns like a nuclear reactor—destructive heat radiating from the inside out.

I’m terrified of the energy contained inside him. I have no illusions that it’s under my control.

Cole pulls me against him. His hands slip around my waist, his thigh presses between mine, our hips align. He holds me at the base of my neck and the small of my back. I’m a rabbit in his hands: helpless, heart racing.

He lets his lips graze against the side of my neck, his hot breath singeing my skin.

“I shouldn’t give you what you want when you’re being bratty . . .” he murmurs in my ear. “I’m not going to dance with you at all unless you behave yourself.”

“I came to this party with you, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t do that for me,” he growls. “You want to be here with me. You want to be dancing with me.”

“So do you,” I retort.

“Of course. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

“Never?”

“Fucking never.”

I’m jealous. The freedom, the confidence to be that selfish . . . I envy Cole. No one owns him. No one controls him.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I ask him.

“No. But I do get bored.”

“I’d rather be dead than bored.”

“So would I,” he says, after a moment’s pause, as if he hadn’t realized that before. “An eternity of boredom sounds worse than death. And heaven sounds pretty fucking boring.”

I laugh. “You can only stand so much plucking on a harp.”

“We lack creativity when we describe heaven,” Cole says. “The Greeks had more interesting mythology. Medusa, for instance. A beautiful woman with a head of venomous snakes . . . that’s a powerful image.”

“No one could look at her, or they’d turn to stone.”

Cole stares into my eyes, his already as dark as wet, black rock.

“You don’t want to be looked at?”

I hold his gaze. “Men never just want to look. I’d like the power to do something about it.”

More and more people arrive, cramming into the already crowded space. The more people want to dance, the tighter Cole and I are pressed together by dozens of bodies on all sides.

I’m sweating off the green makeup, and Cole’s chalky stone is rubbing all over me. Neither of us cares. Soon we’re both covered in muddy paint, our bodies sliding together.

Cole rubs his thumb across my cheekbone, over my lips. Then he licks the paint off my mouth.

I kiss him back, the earthy paint coating my tongue.

The heat, the scent of Cole’s skin, and the chemical taste makes my head swim.

“How have I never tasted paint before?” I murmur.

“Probably because it’s made of awful things . . .” Cole says.

“Like Mummy Brown?” I say. “They used to grind up real mummies . . .”